“Welcome to Atlanta,” the man said. “You must be Jason Noble.”
They shook hands and Jason mumbled, “Thanks for coming for me.”
“Let me get that,” the man said, grabbing Jason’s briefcase.
“Thanks,” Jason said, though he felt a little silly letting an old guy carry his briefcase. The driver was about seventy or so, with stooped shoulders, a thin, pointed nose, and gray hair slicked back so that it curled around his ears. He was wearing a suit, a red bow tie, and cowboy boots.
Jason followed his driver to short-term parking, buttoning his sports coat along the way as the wind knifed through him. His driver seemed to be limping a little.
“Where’s your overcoat?” the driver asked.
“I hate lugging them around,” Jason said. The cold air in the parking garage bit into Jason’s face, and he felt a little stupid.
The driver led him to a Ford Taurus and beeped it unlocked. “This baby’s got a good heater,” he said. “You can ride in the backseat. But most folks prefer to ride up front with me.”
Reluctantly, Jason took the hint and climbed in the front. He had actually been looking forward to daydreaming while he rode through Atlanta, spurring a few positive memories and repressing negative ones as he recognized familiar landmarks. The drive to Buford would take close to an hour in the morning traffic.
The man carefully placed Jason’s briefcase in the backseat and popped open the trunk. He retrieved a black pistol in a shoulder holster and strapped it on under his suit coat.
“We’ve been in a big fight with Hartsfield-Jackson,” he explained, climbing into the car. “They don’t want guns anywhere on airport property-parking lots, nothin’-but we’ve taken ’em to court a couple of times. The Second Amendment is the Second Amendment. The feds get to take your guns at the metal detectors, not before. I’ve got a concealed-carry permit and bring my gun every time I come to the airport, just out of spite.”
Jason resisted the urge to tell him that he agreed with the feds on this one. The thought of thousands of passengers running around the airport premises-even outside the metal detectors-with guns hidden under their suit coats was not a comforting one.
Over the next hour, Jason had no time to stroll down memory lane. The driver engaged in conversation virtually nonstop, even after Jason tried to make it clear at the outset, by giving only one- or two-word answers, that he wasn’t interested in talking. The driver chatted about the Second Amendment, hunting, frivolous lawsuits, his ostrich skin cowboy boots, Jason’s choice of vehicles, the Georgia Bulldogs, illegal immigrants, and lenient judges. The driver even pried information out of Jason about his father, a homicide detective in Atlanta.
“Cop’s kid, huh. I’m surprised you’re not a prosecutor.”
“So’s my father.”
They eventually pulled up to a nondescript one-story redbrick building on a small industrial road off Lawrenceville-Suwanee, basically in the middle of nowhere. There was a large cinder block manufacturing facility behind the office building and a parking lot on the side, full of hundreds of cars. There were a few 18-wheelers parked near the loading docks.
Out front, there was one small sign with the address of the facility and the name MD Firearms. A few neatly trimmed shrubs lined the sidewalks. The Georgia crabgrass that passed as a lawn in these parts had gone brown for the winter.
Jason had envisioned a far different facility. The infamous MD Firearms, in the fulcrum of so much national media attention, looked like any other law-abiding small American manufacturing facility, piecing together a product and struggling to make a buck.
“That’s our manufacturing plant out back,” the driver said. “There’s a shooting range on the other side of it-can’t really see it from here. And this one-story building in front that looks like a renovated elementary school-that’s the worldwide headquarters of MD Firearms.”
Jason thanked the driver, who dropped him off at the front door and handed Jason his briefcase. “The receptionist knows you’re coming,” the driver said.
Jason peeled off a five-dollar bill from the other money in his pocket and tried to hand it to the driver.
“No, thanks,” the man said. “I work for the company. We’re not allowed to take tips.”
“Okay. Well, thanks again.” Jason drew a deep breath and headed into the facility.
20
The inauspicious size of the building was only the first of many surprises. Melissa Davids met Jason in the lobby and gave him a personal tour of the manufacturing facility.
She was nothing like the fierce advocate he had seen on television. She knew most of the line workers by name and asked questions about their families’ Christmas plans. Even though Davids was a small and nondescript woman, her personality dominated everyone in her presence. She had this thing for calling people by their last name and somehow made that feel more informal and intimate than if she had used their first name or a nickname. The place was neat and businesslike, the kind of atmosphere you might expect to find at any top-notch manufacturing plant.
After the tour, Davids took Jason back to her office, located at the front corner of the building. It was about half the square footage of Jason’s office. Pictures of Melissa’s husband-an accountant, according to Jason’s research-and children adorned the walls. She picked up the phone and asked Case McAllister to join them.
A few minutes later, Jason’s driver came into the office, a sly smile on his face. It took a second for Jason to piece it together. Stunned, he casually shook the man’s hand.
“We’ve met,” Case said. “Had a good ride from the airport together.”
Jason felt like an idiot for failing to get the man’s name. It was probably some kind of litmus test, seeing how a lawyer would treat a lowly driver for the company. Quickly, Jason scrolled through his conversation with Case, trying to remember if he’d said anything stupid.
“Has Melissa told you the meeting rules yet?” Case asked.
Meeting rules? “No.”
“She hates meetings,” Case said. “Believes that committees and meetings are the places good ideas go to die. Any meeting at MD Firearms involving Melissa is a stand-up meeting. If we can’t finish it in a half hour, we do it off-line.”
“Good rules,” Jason said.
“How’d he do on the ride?” Davids asked.
Case checked a notepad he was holding. “A little more liberal than most of our outside lawyers. Not much of a hunter or gun aficionado. Doesn’t detest frivolous lawsuits with quite the same passion you and I might.”
Jason felt himself going a little red and started wondering how he might explain this to Robert Sherwood. I lost the client before I even got to their facility.
“Any good points?” Davids asked.
“A couple. He drives a Ford F-150 truck, and his dad’s a cop.” This elicited an approving nod from Davids. “He’s also a Georgia Bulldog fan. Graduated from UGA Law.”
“Salvageable,” Davids said.
“Barely,” Case said.
The whole exchange felt surreal, like being a draft pick and watching the front office evaluate you. They were talking past Jason, as if he didn’t exist.
But then Case McAllister addressed him. “We’ve interviewed two other prospective lawyers who both assured us we could get summary judgment based on the Protection of Lawful Commerce in Arms Act. Said they could make the case go away in less than six months. Have you looked at that issue?”
The question threw Jason even more off stride, not because he hadn’t looked at the Act but because he hadn’t known he was in a beauty contest with other law firms. He really wanted this case, and Robert Sherwood had made it sound like it was Jason’s just for the asking. But he couldn’t fudge his legal advice just to land a client.
“The way I read the complaint, it falls within an exception to the Act,” Jason said. “And if we decide to leave the case in state court, which I recommend based on the conservative nature of Virginia Beach juries, it will be almost impossible to get summary judgment. Virginia is the only state that doesn’t allow the use of depositions for a summary judgment motion. If we don’t get a judgment on the initial pleadings, which is unlikely based on my review of the complaint, then we’re going to trial.”